Paw Prints in the Moonlight (2 page)

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Authors: Denis O'Connor

BOOK: Paw Prints in the Moonlight
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As I approached, the cat's struggles to escape became frenzied and I saw that the snow around it was heavily bloodstained. Shocked and distressed by the sight, I had to find a way to release it, but that proved far from easy. Demented by its injuries and panicked by my presence, it hindered my well-intentioned efforts with a fit of spitting and clawing. Scrambling about on my hands and knees in the snow, I eventually succeeded in prising open the jaws of the rusty trap which had bitten deeply into its leg. To my surprise, despite its severe wounds, the cat took off at high
speed through the snow and was quickly gone from sight. Breathless with exertion and badly scratched and bitten about the hands and arms, I struggled to find a footing on the frozen ground but managed to raise myself up. Still reeling from the shock of this sudden and unexpected experience, at first I didn't know what I should do, if anything. Where had the cat gone? Had it simply headed for the nearest cover? Was it now lying under some fir tree, racked with pain? Cold and wet, I decided to return to the cottage for comfort and medication, as well as time to think. A welcome glass of brandy, some first aid and a roasting in front of the revived log fire did much to restore my spirits.
As I thawed out I reviewed the situation. Thinking about what I had seen started to vex me. It was worrying to think about the injured cat and how desperately it needed help. ‘I can't just leave things like that,' I said to myself aloud, but it wasn't really any business of mine. Perhaps I should leave it alone. After all, it was getting late and I was tired. Also, it wasn't the weather to go tramping around looking for an injured animal and either a fox or farm dog would most probably have got to it already. Even if the cat survived until daylight, the carrion crows, nature's scavengers, would soon dispatch it and that would be the end of it. Still, I had spent a childhood living with cats and I had a great fondness for them. It was an irritating dilemma
for me but after only a short tussle my conscience won the day and I resolved to try to track and find the cat. What I would do then was a matter for future consideration. Quickly fortifying myself with my sheepskin jacket, the thickest gloves I could find and Wellington boots, I armed myself with a walking stick and set off in pursuit before I could change my mind.
The cat's paw tracks in the snow were easy enough to pick out by the light of the moon, especially where they were spattered with blood. Under the trees it was harder to see the tracks, particularly as they meandered through a dense clump of blackthorn and sometime later through a plantation of young firs. I floundered through packed snow, breathing hard, as the trail plunged down a sharp incline. I slithered and fell as I tried to find it again after it had disappeared through an overgrown drainage ditch. Sweating profusely and already exhausted, I wondered where the cat was going: surely it should have given up by now. Abruptly, the tracks turned almost at a right angle as the cat headed, to my relief, over open country. This animal had a definite purpose in mind but I puzzled over what it could be. Tired and out of breath, I was already feeling that I'd had enough. I decided that if I didn't find it soon, I would turn back for home.
The trail suddenly became more direct and appeared to head for a tumbledown barn in the near distance. I had to
marvel at this animal's stamina, especially in places where it had literally dragged itself through the snow. It was hard enough for me to walk as I kept sliding and losing balance on the freezing ground.
Soon I was standing inside the opening of the derelict building. At first it was hard to see anything in the darkness, but after a time my eyes adjusted to the gloom. With the help of the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside, I began to search the darker corners where I thought a wounded cat might go. I had no luck there. Mystified, I started to examine the walls of the separate stalls because I thought a cat could perhaps climb up into a corner or some other hiding place that wasn't easy to see from the ground. At last, I found a pathway of bloodspots which traced the cat's passage to where a broken door gave access to an inner shed. The door had seen better days and I was easily able to wrench it open, but there was nothing inside except a rusty corn bin and some straw. I regretted not bringing a torch. Through holes in the timbers I could see that it had begun snowing again. The wind blew flakes of it through the gaps against my face and clothing as I searched around. It felt bitterly cold even in the shelter of the barn and I could feel a chill on my back from the cold sweat of my shirt. I worried that the search was probably foolhardy, but I was determined to persevere for a little while longer.
There was no sign of the cat anywhere but a closer
inspection of the wall around a warped wooden shelf revealed more spots of blood and a well-defined route of scratch marks leading upwards. Judging from the signs I'd seen, the cat was bleeding badly and possibly wouldn't last much longer without help. It could be anywhere in the roof area and it probably wouldn't be safe for me to go up there even if I somehow managed the climb. Then I remembered that when I came in I'd noticed a ladder lying near the entrance to the barn.
Hurrying back to the front of the building I found the wooden ladder half-buried in dirt. Pulling it free I saw that two rungs were missing. It looked to be in a poor state but I thought it might be worth giving it a try. Quickly propping the ladder up against the wall where I believed the cat had climbed, I found it reached right up to where there was a sort of hatchway into the roof. The ladder must have been used in the past to gain access to a hay store in the loft. The hatchway didn't look too high so I thought I'd chance it. If I still couldn't find the cat after this effort, then I'd go home.
I cautiously inched my way up the rickety ladder. I was now more than ever determined to see this thing through to the end. I am not that keen on heights at the best of times but by now I knew that what I was doing was madly reckless. What if I fell and broke a leg? Would anybody find me? In spite of these acute anxieties, I continued to climb.
Pushing and shoving my way up against dusty, cobwebbed
timbers, I eased myself between the rotting planks and crawled out on to the floor above. Remnants of straw and hay were strewn all around and the impression I had was that everything was in a state of near collapse. Towards the rear end of the loft there was an opening to the outside, with a patch of windblown snow around it. Possibly this had once been a loading bay. Bird-droppings littered part of the flooring and looking up I could just make out the shapes of last summer's swallow nests. Shafts of moonlight seeped through the gaps between the sprung timbers of the roof and softly illumined the dark-beamed joists and warped floorboards of the loft stretching out before me. The question was, where had the cat gone?
As I slowly looked around I heard a wet licking sound which drew me to a corner where, amid the debris of leaves and straw, the silver-grey cat had come to rest. Not wishing to alarm it in any way and mindful of its claws, I cautiously approached and, from a safe distance, peered into the recess. Was this its den? Had it crawled here to die as badly wounded wild animals have been known to do? As I edged slowly closer, a moonbeam slanted through a hole in the roof and momentarily lit up the corner. I realized that I had been witness to the most powerful of all instincts in the animal kingdom. The silver-grey cat was a mother, driven by the maternal instinct to return to succour her two kittens. In front of me, a rough nest had been scraped together for
her family. Not trusting the loose timbers to accommodate my weight while standing, I crawled nearer on hands and knees until I was at last able to inspect the family by the dim moonlight.
They were a pitiful sight. The kittens, as far as I could see were at most only a couple of weeks old and merely frail bundles of skin and bone covered in ragged fur. They hardly seemed to move at all, despite the she-cat's insistent licking as she worked feverishly to caress some life into them. They had obviously been left on their own for some considerable time. I stared aghast at what I'd found and it filled me with despair. The she-cat seemed oblivious to her own plight, determined to mother her kittens at all costs. Perhaps it was already too late, but I felt I had to make the effort to seek help for them, especially after making it this far.
Transporting them was more easily accomplished than I'd expected. I found a remnant of sacking, dusty with chaff and seed husks but dry and warm nonetheless. The she-cat watched me, wide-eyed and strangely gentle, as I carefully lifted her mangled body on to the sacking, followed by the tiny, frail kittens. She must have been in great pain as I moved her but all the fight and fear appeared to have bled out of her and she was content now that she was back with her kittens. There were a few anxious moments when I came to descend the ladder but, apart from a number of painfully bruising jolts, I succeeded in reaching the floor of
the barn without mishap. From there I hurried home by a more direct and, I hoped, easier route than the one by which I'd come.
The ground outside was frozen hard and I found myself stumbling and skidding with the effort of carrying the cat and her kittens over frozen patches of snow and ice. I was more worried about their safety than my own and a couple of times I lost my balance and thudded down, saving them from dropping at the expense of falling hard. I was beginning to ache in places that I'd forgotten I had.
At one point I decided to cross a field in order to shorten the journey but it proved to be a time-consuming mistake. I found myself struggling through deep drifts and stumbling over concealed stones and other debris. Nevertheless, I kept going as fast as the deep snow and the care of my charges would allow.
I reached the cottage almost on the point of collapse. Even though I was feeling physically worn-out and emotionally drained, I wasted no time and began to summon help. It was just after 9 p.m.; the whole episode had taken a mere two hours yet it seemed an eternity since I had been relaxing in front of the fire. Directory Enquiries gave me a number to telephone and soon the three casualties were safe in the boot of my car as I drove as fast as conditions would allow, along roads covered in snow, to the local veterinary clinic in Alnwick. Their fate would soon be in the hands of
a professional and my task, thankfully, would be over. Or so I thought at the time.
 
Arriving home from the vet's some two hours later with the sole remaining kitten still, hopefully, warm and safe in my pocket, I felt weakened and fatigued by the evening's turn of events. It had all happened so quickly that it was difficult for me to fully comprehend that it really had occurred. The cottage was warm and friendly in contrast to the brutal weather outside and after the disappointment of losing the mother cat and her kitten, it was uplifting to feel the comfort of familiar surroundings again.
Gingerly, I removed the surviving kitten from my pocket and placed him with great care on to a woollen rug near the fire. At first I couldn't tell whether he was alive or not but suddenly the tiny creature sneezed, probably due to the dust in my pocket. It was at that moment I realized the enormity of the task that lay ahead of me. Here I was, expected to play nursemaid to a little wild animal that was only about two-weeks old and barely alive. I was totally inexperienced for this task and suddenly felt quite inadequate. What had I been thinking of to get myself into such a predicament?
The odds against me having any chance at all of rearing the kitten successfully were too far-fetched to even consider. But all my efforts throughout this evening had been
motivated by feelings of compassion for a badly injured cat that, as it turned out, had been killed by human cruelty. I had brought the surviving kitten home as an act of mercy, rather than having it put to death, but I hadn't thought it through. I began to reflect that possibly I had been too impulsive. Nevertheless, as it was a problem of my own making I would just have to do what I could in the circumstances.
I was reminded of times past when, as a boy, I'd gone fishing for minnows only to find that my catch couldn't survive captivity in a jam jar. So I would trek back to the lake to set them free again. This felt like a similar situation except that this time I could not face the humiliation of taking the kitten back to the vet.
After a recuperative mug of tea and a short spell by the fireside, I felt in a better mood to tackle the problem. Anyway, I thought, the creature will probably pass away any minute now. The image of the injured she-cat returned to haunt me. I was suffering from feelings of guilt towards the kitten on behalf of my fellow humans who had killed his mother. As a lover of wild creatures and the countryside I know that gamekeepers and hunters use various trapping devices against animal life in the fields and woods, but I think the practice of using gin-traps is particularly wicked. Aimed at safeguarding flocks of pheasants and grouse so that the landed gentry and their guests can shoot them down in mid-August, it causes the deaths of innocent victims. Unsuspecting
animals, such as rabbits, weasels, pine martens, foxes and badgers, who step on the trap release a spring holding back serrated iron jaws which trap the animal's foot. Many creatures have been known to bite through their ensnared limb in order to escape, only to die later from blood loss or an infection; others, such as the mother cat, writhe in awful agony and face a slow and pain-filled death. Since that fateful night when the silver-grey cat died, I have made it my business to destroy gin-traps wherever I find them on my country walks.
My immediate and most pressing problem was what I could do to successfully rear this pathetic little creature, a true orphan of the storm. Whenever in my life I have been uncertain about what to do, I have found the best answer is to actually do something straightaway, but without panicking, and to think about it in depth later. I wanted to avoid making a terrible mistake, though: there was a life at stake here.

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